


Take Me to the River

by orbiting_saturn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles does that to him sometimes, bowls over everything important with the force of his personality, the mystery of his mind. It used to annoy and confuse Derek, but lately it just fascinates him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me to the River

**Author's Note:**

  * For [transfixeddream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixeddream/gifts).



> Written for the fourth round of stop_drop_howl, for the prompt _take me down to the river_.

It ends in fire. Doesn’t it always? 

The Nemeton, for all its power, for all its allure, is just a hunk of dried out wood in the end. 

It tries to fight back, because nothing can ever be simple. With all of the magic it’s culminated, the Nemeton attacks, brings the very forest alive around Derek and the others. Trees uproot themselves, lash at them with thick, sharp branches. Deer stampede quick and heavy, horns lowered and fierce as Chris Argent and the Sheriff fire shot after shot. Ethan and Aidan conjoin to fight a god-damned bear. 

The fire had to be lit from below, and they had managed to fill the root cellar with enough coal and oil to start the blaze, but the dirt around the stump began collapsing, filling the hole in to smother the flames almost as soon as they began to lick at the roots.

Creatures big and small descend wildly upon them, birds and bats, insects and rodents. Scott goes into his first full Alpha shift and targets the larger animals, leaping from animal to animal, snout open on a howl and blood dripping from his claws. 

Deaton, Morrell and Stiles flank the exposed roots of the Nemeton, press their palms into the earth and mutter chants to stoke the dying heat in the smothered coals. Derek and the others surround Stiles and the emissaries, fight and slash and rend at what they can as the wind cyclones dirt into their eyes.

The Nemeton calls an impossible force to its defense, but Derek is back to back with Stiles, can feel the heat rising from the ground, smell the acrid stench of burning dirt. 

The hoards go wild around them, crying out the Nemeton’s pain in growls and screeches, chittering and buzzing. The spell is working, but Derek feels the waves of the animal frenzy, feels like he’ll fall any moment under the inexorable press of it. 

“Cover your ears! Cover your ears!” Lydia shouts.

Derek turns before obeying, drapes himself around Stiles’ hunched back and feels the wild, humid heat rising from the earth. He gets the heels of his hands pressed to his ears, cringes through the stinging pain of birds beating against his back when he hears the muted pierce of Lydia’s wail.

Even through the meat of his palms, the cry of a banshee is almost unbearable to a werewolf. The press of the animals around them vanishes as the creatures retreat in fear and pain.

A wall of heat erupts before them and Lydia chokes back her scream. Derek uncurls himself when the stench of burning flesh hits his sinuses. On instinct, Derek grabs at Stiles’ wrists and yanks his hands away from the ground. 

The flesh of Stiles’ palms is seared and blistering, choking Derek with his horrified memories. But the Nemeton is ablaze, flames licking at the air, ash drifting on the wind as the stump creaks and crackles.

The pain makes Stiles shake and shudder, makes him fall weakly into the bowed curve of Derek’s body. Derek holds Stiles with an arm crossed over his chest and they stare with exhausted relief at the dying Nemeton.

*

“It’s over. The magic is gone,” Morrell says, the only one standing, strong and fierce while everyone else gasps on the ground.

There’s only the barest moment of quiet before everyone erupts into action. Chris is injured, bleeding from a gored open wound in his thigh. Scott is out cold from the force of Lydia’s shrieking, lying naked and red-streaked over the corpse of a gutted stag. Lydia is listing against Aiden, dangerously close to passing out.

The Sheriff starts calling out directions, corralling Cora and Isaac to carry out Scott and Chris. Chris clearly needs a hospital and Deaton wants Scott taken back to his office so he can have a better look at the damage to his ears. 

“Stiles!” the Sheriff finally calls, swinging his gaze around the clearing until it falls on where Derek and Stiles are huddled together on the ground. “Son, are you okay?”

It’s not until the attention of the Sheriff falls on them that Derek realizes he still has his arm wrapped around Stiles, has his warm body pulled close to his chest and cradled between his thighs. Derek yanks away guiltily, stumbling gracelessly to his feet. 

Without Derek’s support holding him, Stiles pitches toward the ground and catches himself on his injured hands. After hissing in pain, Stiles throws Derek a glare. “Wow, thanks for that, dick.”

“Stiles!” The Sheriff barks and starts towards him. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Stiles waves his father away as Derek hoists him to his feet by the back of his shirt. “Go. Get Mr. Argent to the hospital. Use your fancy siren.”

The Sheriff gives Stiles one more searching look before he switches from father mode back to cop mode. He follows the others quickly out of the clearing.

Derek looks around at the carnage surrounding them, can’t help the way he tenses up and flinches away from the still roaring fire. “Guess I’m on carcass duty,” he says to no one in particular. “Super.”

“Aiden and I can take care of the mess, if you two want to get out of here,” Ethan offers tentatively.

Derek hadn’t even noticed that the twins were still there, stripped down to their jeans and looking uncomfortable to be left alone with Derek and Stiles.

“Fuck off and die,” Derek says. It’s one of his pat responses whenever one of the twins addresses him directly. It’s that or “go fuck yourself”, sometimes he tells them to “go fist your ugly brother, ass face”. He’s still working through his anger. Scott thinks it’s a more productive method than tranqing them with wolfsbane and tazing them in the nuts until they fall off. 

Still, Derek is more than happy to let them handle the funeral pyre, so he shrugs and turns to Stiles. Who is apparently already gone. 

Derek cranes his head around, happy that he catches sight of Stiles just before he disappears between the trees since he isn’t sure he could track him by scent over the stench of smoke and blood in the air. 

He could probably go home, but Derek isn’t sure if Stiles came in his Jeep or not. Also, he’s spent the last six months following Stiles around, so it’s instinct to keep to the pattern. 

When it started, Derek just needed to keep an eye on Stiles to pull him back if he went into one of his waking dream states. Then he needed to track him when Stiles began sleep-walking. Soon after that, Scott made Derek the official Stiles-sitter whenever he or the Sheriff weren’t around. 

“Where are you going?” Derek calls to Stiles, picking his way easily through the underbrush while Stiles stumbles ahead of him. “The highway is in the other direction.”

“To the river.”

“Why are we going to the river?”

“We’re _not_ going to the river. _I’m_ going to the river and _you’re_ following me. Again. Because apparently you’re over-protective guard-dog habits die hard.”

Derek doesn’t reply to that, mostly because it’s irrefutable, but he closes some of the distance between them, watches and waits for the moment that he’ll inevitably have to catch Stiles when he trips over a root or something.

Stiles huffs a deep sigh, but doesn’t say anything else. They walk in silence, Stiles projecting an air of irritability and long-sufferance. It’s a nearly full moon, but the foliage is thick enough that only random beams can slash their way through. Even without it, Derek would be able see just fine but it throws the tense the lines of Stiles’ back into stark relief at intervals, turns him into a flickering slide-show of shadows and light. 

The trees and brush thin out as they near the river, the low gurgles of the moving water over-loud in the jarring quiet of the forest. All of the usual sounds are suspiciously absent, either lying dead at the base of the burning Nemeton or fled far, far away from the horrors of the fight. It’s been barely a half hour since the fight ended, but already Derek feels it like a decade.

Stiles doesn’t slow his stride when they reach the banks of the river, when the moonlight bursts widely through the break in the trees, just pushes forward until his sneakers are splashing through the stream. He trudges further in, so far that the water hits his thighs.

“What- Stiles, what the hell?” Derek barks and stops so quickly he sways a little, almost over balances and tips into the river. As it is, the toes of his shoes kiss the water.

Stiles bends to plunge his hands into the cool water, which makes a little sense now, since Derek remembers the angry blisters the boy had on his palms. Seems a little extreme to walk two miles into the forest just to ice a burn, but Stiles has always been brash like that. 

Derek feels bad for forgetting the kid’s injury, but Stiles does that to him sometimes, bowls over everything important with the force of his personality, the mystery of his mind. It used to annoy and confuse Derek, but lately it just fascinates him, to wonder what Stiles is thinking and how does he get there? Where does he go and can Derek even follow? Stiles went half-mad and Derek had to meet him where he could, now he doesn’t know how to stop. 

A flood of scent hits the air then, that crackling ozone smell of a spark and catch, magic heavy over the rocks and riverbed silt. It pours so furiously out of Stiles that the kid whines and trembles and that’s enough to have Derek surging forward.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts, splashing in, ignoring the swift rush of cold water into his favorite pair of boots. 

He gets a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, poised to pull him around, but Stiles shakes him off with surprising force that nearly knocks Derek back. 

“It’s in me,” Stiles chokes. “The Nemeton’s magic, I have to use it to get it out.”

Stiles drifts deeper in, waist high in the river and Derek doesn’t dare to touch him again because there’s steam rising from his clothes. 

“It was winning, so I took it’s magic and turned it in on itself. But the fire didn’t use it all up. It’s still just in me, so you have to just let me, okay?”

And Stiles dips beneath the water, goes to his knees until the water covers him completely. It worries Derek, letting Stiles fully submerge himself when he’s in this state, but before he can move to grab him, Stiles bounces back up, shaking droplets from his hair. 

That sharp magic tang has left the air, fizzled out like a damp match. For a few tense seconds, Derek lets Stiles just breathe and shiver. 

“I used it up, see?” Stiles finally says, holds his hands before him, palm up. The burns are completely healed. Derek blinks, surprised and yet not, because Stiles has magic, everyone knows it at this point. But healing magic is some pretty hardcore shit and Derek didn’t know that Stiles had it in him. 

Derek grabs Stiles’ hands, pulls them back for a closer inspection. Not even a mark. He turns them over and swallows thickly when he sees that the scar Stiles had on the knuckle of his right had is gone now too. 

“So,” Derek starts tentatively, brushing the pad of his thumb curiously over the smooth skin that used to be hard and raised. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s good. It’s so fucking good, you don’t even know.” 

Derek finally drags his eyes up to Stiles’ face, something in the tone of his voice making him curious. “Then why do you sound so fucking miserable?” 

Stiles’ face does this sort of wince/sneer combo, looking right at Derek while he does it. It’s sort of ridiculous, like only his face is having a seizure, but somehow it works for Stiles. 

“Because now I’ll always know how to reach for it. But it’s supposed to be _over_ , Derek. I thought- I thought the Nemeton would die and I’d stop being a ball of magical potential and go back to being the comic relief sidekick and you would go back to just being the jerk with dumb hair who pushes me into things and doesn’t touch my hands and look at me with sad eyes.”

It’s so many words, so many _Stiles_ words and Derek isn’t sure which one to go for first, so he just says, “My hair isn’t dumb.”

Stiles’ eyes widen and his eyebrows twist and squirm, do a stupid dance across his face. Derek just has to reach up and pin one of them down with the pad of his thumb, feeling this strange stretch in his cheek that might be a smile. “What- I know that, fuck! What were we talking about again?”

Derek slides his hand into Stiles’ soaked hair, gives it a little squeeze to ring out the ends so the water streaks down the cuts of Stiles’ perfect cheekbones. 

“Your existential crisis, I think. Did you want to get back to that or would you rather I push you into some things?” 

“Fuck you, jerkface,” Stiles says with a grin that splits his whole face open.

And then there’s the kiss, the kiss that just happens and melts over and between them. Stiles has lips that he uses to talk, that he bites with his sharp teeth, lips that suck on pens and straws and every little thing, lips that he uses to kiss Derek with, lips that open so perfectly to let Derek’s tongue in. 

Stiles has long, nimble fingers that he digs into Derek’s hair to tug and twist. Stiles has so very many things, all of those things pressing in on Derek while their mouths work together. 

Stiles has hips that he pushes into Derek, throwing him off balance, walking him backwards towards the bank of the river. 

“Fuck,” Stiles gasps between kisses and licks. “Fucking river is freezing, but you’re hot like the sun. Get your stupid clothes off, asshole.”

Stiles is tugging at Derek’s sodden Henley, pushing it up to his pits while Derek stumbles them back to semi-dry land. 

“Down,” Stiles growls and shoves Derek hard, so hard he falls back on his ass. It smarts like a son-of-a-bitch and Derek means to complain, he really does, but then Stiles is kneeling between his spread thighs and attacking the button on his jeans.

Derek’s fingers dig into the wet dirt and rocks, his hips shifting anxiously because he’s hard, so fucking hard from just a kiss and it’s only now that he knows what this is all about. Stiles led him on a wild chase, but he’s the one being taken down, tumbled so easily to the ground by this impossible kid. 

The fly of his jeans finally gives under Stiles’ wrenching. Stiles gives a triumphant “ah-hah!” before wriggling his hand into the slit of Derek’s boxer briefs. 

“Just so you know,” Stiles pants breathlessly, cold fingers finding the meat of Derek’s dick and making him hiss with pleasure pain. “I’ve never blown anyone before, so try to bear with me here.”

Stiles pulls Derek out and it’s sort of obscene, that it’s going to be like this, just his dick bared and the rest of him covered. Somehow, Derek thinks this should’ve been done better, but also it’s like it couldn’t have gone any other way between them. 

And did Derek mention before that Stiles has lips? Because, fuck, the kid has lips, warm slick lips that he wraps right around the head of Derek’s cock. And a tongue too, a tongue that slides right over the head, catches the slick he’s leaking out, then swirls, swirls all around him. 

Stiles tries to go down on him, but his teeth scrape a little and Derek hisses and curses. “Easy,” he pants out. “Easy.” 

Stiles hums an apology that vibrates straight through Derek, feels so good that his ass clenches and his dick pumps forward a little. Stiles takes a second to readjust his angle, gets a few deep breaths through his nose, all while keeping just the tip cupped in the curve of his wet, hot tongue. 

Carefully, Stiles wraps his lips around his teeth and sinks down and down and down, so far, too far, wet and tight and perfect. Derek is deep now, so deep he can feel the head of his dick nudging at Stiles’ throat. His eyes are shut because he’ll die is he looks, his teeth gnashed tight because he won’t shut up if he opens it. 

With another deep breath, Stiles opens himself up and swallows Derek down. 

“Fuck,” Derek finally groans, can’t hold it back because this kid really _is_ magic, deep-throating Derek on his first go ‘round. Who fucking does that? 

Stiles pulls back and Derek can feel his cockhead pop out of the clutch of his throat. Derek is going to go off like a shot, any second because Stiles doesn’t let up, just attacks Derek’s dick like he does with everything else. It isn’t just enthusiasm either, its organic, natural, like Stiles was made to suck Derek off. 

That mouth bobs up and down, up and down, fucks itself on Derek until he can’t help but thrust. Derek mumbles apologies that he doesn’t mean, his head turning against the gritty ground, hips stuttering, lifting into the wet suction until finally, he gives up entirely. 

Derek lifts his head, cracks open his eyes and _sees_ Stiles, sees Stiles with his mouth stretched wide and shiny, with his eyes fluttering prettily, with his hand rubbing frantically at his crotch and that’s it, Derek is done. 

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” Derek gasps, lifts his hand to the back of Stiles’ head. Derek breaks all of the codes of blowjob conduct, holds Stiles down while he fucks his come into the kid’s throat. 

Stiles whines and gags, digs his fingernails into Derek’s hip until he lets go. Stiles pulls off with a gasp, gets one last shot across his chin. Derek brings his dirty hand to his cock, rings out his aftershocks while Stiles buries his face in the crease of his thigh. 

Derek can hear the brush of skin on denim, Stiles rubbing himself off through his jeans, before he comes in a wash of fresh salty scent. 

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to pop back up, a pink friction burn on his cheek from Derek’s jeans, his mouth rubbed red and still slick with Derek’s seed. 

“Dude, that was awesome, wasn’t it? I’m freaking _awesome_ at giving head. And, hey,” Stiles slaps Derek on the belly sharply. “Dick move, holding me down like that. You’re blowjob etiquette is for shit, pal.”

Derek reaches up and grabs Stiles’ shirt, yanks him down so they’re chest to chest. “Shut up and kiss me. Let me taste you,” Derek demands, then takes it before Stiles can answer.

It isn’t over, but maybe Derek will go back to pushing Stiles into things anyway.


End file.
